Translated from the Italian by Anna Aresi

From: The Reverse Side of Light

to Tadeusz Pankiewicz, a Polish pharmacist in the Krakow ghetto, who chose to stay in the ghetto until the end, bringing help and risking his life during the atrocious phases of German raids. His pharmacy was named “Under the Eagle.”

my father had a pharmacy at the corner
where the eagle spread her wings from up high
and saw men and women standing with the soldiers
mothers tightening their clothes around their breasts
the elderly they came first
alone their faces long like goats’
and the whole sky loaded on their backs
then the women with their hair tied to their hairpins
a veil of tears torn away from their eyes
the children were not allowed to shout
a sliver of universe falling sideways across the square
once in a while a few shots would cover the voices
and every morning my father neatly arranged his compounds
the stars God took them away from the firmament
and now they all shine on the wool of our coats
and “it’s them” he said “we should use as a mirror”

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To Etty Hillesum

the sky has closed in your womb
the freezing cold snapped your foot
it saw you fall to your knees
scream over your jasmine shrub
and sulfurous salt and triumph
exhale your glassy wrists
in the field you were birthing your flower
the birth pains of infinite days
born again at night in your mouth
with your teeth fallen to the ground
you polished God’s lips

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From: England, My England

Highlands Tour 3

everywhere i see the unfolding of the enigma
in this sky torn like a garment
in the solemn dance of air and flowers
I’m content to moisten your hair with my voice
and hear a hermit’s prayer among the rocks
tonight the foxes are singing in the moorland darkness
i  want to see again the light drowning in water
and bring you back tomorrow our eyes intact on my hands
here death is only a sign erased by morning

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From: Poems for a Venus with no Arms

to dancer Simona Atzori, born with no upper limbs

i can unveil for you the path you carry in your steps
listen to your breath descending into the womb
and make your blood slide down your legs
perfection is a chain at a servant’s wrists
i can fly in your eyes with only one wing

*

on stage i’m struck by the noises
drums beating onto the boards
the wood never asks about my arms
it sees dust rising from my knees
circling and ascending to the lights
i always carry some book in my pocket
poems i read them with my feet

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